


16-12-91

by Moriarty (DamnedAfterAll27)



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/M, Other, Post-CACW, also kick ass females am I right ladies, but bucky is my favourite so, slight AU, trust me my marvel skills are limited
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-01
Updated: 2016-07-24
Packaged: 2018-07-19 10:52:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7358305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DamnedAfterAll27/pseuds/Moriarty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'He has the mentality of a child. They’ve fried him to the point where even basic brain functions are damaged. He needed me'</p><p>Bucky froze himself to try to remember. When he is unfrozen earlier than expected, his memory begins to fail him and he is left for dead in the woods of Eastern Europe. However, when a neurobiologist discovers him, she decides to make his remembrance her next project. </p><p>No one has forgotten Bucky, however. Not his best friend, his comrades- or even the people they're fighting against. </p><p>(forgive my Marvel knowledge I just really like Bucky as a character, OK? Awesome.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prelude

**Author's Note:**

> P.S My Russian is also terrible.

_'ALL UNITS DOWN. SECURITY REQUIRED. ALL UNITS DOWN. SECURITY REQUIRED.'_

An agency than ran entirely on the beauty of electricity, could be killed with just the cutting of a wire. If they believed that HYDRA's techniques were beyond such simplicity, then the owners of the storage unit were more naive than they expected. Clothed in black, shadows filtered in through the building, circling their prey like hawks. They could slip into the background and remain unnoticed- at least until they snapped your neck. It was understood that they had, perhaps, six minutes to get what they needed and get out before the local authorities arrived and the additional power back-up system was ready to perform. That was six minutes of carefully calculated time, each requiring choreographed chaos to get what they wanted.

As the leader of the pack liked to put it, this was not a retrieval mission. There was nothing here they wanted. It was a storage unit, a small slice of the Arctic in the middle of Eastern Europe, that held nothing but some large, empty cylinders. Useless junk that could really only be melted down for scrap. At least, this was the belief of almost all the agents in the room. They travelled like wolves, in a close-knit pack, but it was easy enough for one to slip away, had they the right timing and flexibility.

No one batted an eyelid as one agent slid from the tail of the group into a smaller subsection of the unit, heading towards one of the smaller containers.

The agent paused in front of one of the cylinders, reaching out to roughly brush away the frost that had collected along the front. A series of numbers denoted just what, or who, was stuck inside. With a quick glance at the time, the agent panicked. They reached out their hand and with fumbled skill thanks to the thick, woolen gloves on their hand, attempted to pick the lock of the cylinder. There were shouts of Russian coming from somewhere else in the unit, their voices amplified by the airy walls and high ceilings. Icy rain hailed like bullets against the tin roof, a sharpened contrast to the sound of actual bullets coming from the other side of the room.

Click. Success.

The door of the cylinder clicked open and fell onto its hinges. Taking a quick glance inside, the agent smirked. They stood up onto the tops of their toes, tugging at the thick white band that kept the frozen figure in place. He was large, much bigger than they were expecting, and as he collapsed, frozen and solid, onto their shoulders, the single agent struggled to keep them upright. Slowly, the frozen figure was eased onto the floor. The ice was melting quickly- the agent could see small movements coming from the fingers and toes.

His lips were no longer a cartoon sky blue, his skin was starting to look more alive. As more shouts in Russian, demands for reinforcements, for back-up, rang through the agent's ears, they gripped one of the legs of the frozen figure and began to drag it towards the only other exit- a rusty fire exit hanging off of its hinges. Russian winters were like a constant slap in the face. As the agent kicked open the door, struggling with the weight of the frozen man, their eyes pinched shut. Each move was a struggle, each foot in the snow pulled them back just a bit further. But the agent's orders were solid: get him to the woods and leave him there. The rest would be dealt with.

The agent was a few yards away from the unit when the first explosion hit. A bright, billowing mushroom of black and grey soared into the sky like a murderous firework, leaving behind crackling flames and dancing colours, vibrant against the cold white of the ground. There were screams. There were always screams. Things you were trained to ignore. To acknowledge them would be to admit empathy, and evil has little in connection with such an emotion. It was a while, a good few hours, before the agent reached the middle of the woods.

The location was a small clearing, surrounded by a neat circle of trees that peeked into the white sky. Dropping the frozen man's leg, the agent couldn't help but look at his face before they disappeared. There was something mysterious about it. As though it defied the very notion of the eyes showing the inside of the soul. So lost in it was the young agent that they barely noticed the hand twitching on the snow, reaching out. Not until it grabbed their leg. The agent jumped and, remembering themselves, rushed away from the clearing of the forest. The figure could hear the agent's heavy footsteps in the snow, could spy the prints they had left in their wake.

He never saw the agent again.

\-----------------

*If he admitted it to himself, in all honesty, Bucky Barnes was surprised that he was not already dead.

He had put himself in enough positions that he should be dead. War, HYDRA training, a career as an assassin- surely someone should have the skill to just kill him, already. The possibilities had been considered, of course, how he might die. Drowning in a river. Being tortured and shot for treason. Just tearing off his own arm and beating himself to death with it. No man in his shoes would not think about the prospect of his own death. Death in the snow was not one of the prospects he had considered.

But now, as he lay in an unknown clearing, half of his body suspended by ice, he wondered what on earth he had done to deserve staying alive. He tried to think, testing the gears of his brain to see what was still working. His memory was hazy, understandably. Which year was it? How long had he been frozen? All good questions, but with no one in the know around him to answer them, he was resigned to making wild guesses. Half of his body was still frozen. It was taking a shorter amount of time for him to defrost than he realised. Had he any energy, he would have staggered to his feet and tried to find the nearest village. His Russian was rusty, for lack of a better word, but he was sure that he could scrounge a room for a night to try and get his bearings.

But, as Bucky realised with a worrying twitch of his legs, he didn't appear to be able to move. Hoisting himself up onto one shaky arm, he observed his body. His legs were frozen solid, but starting to warm. His face was still flecked with ice, his hair sodden from the snow he had been deposited in. Questions began to rise again- just who had unfrozen him, and why?

A wolf howled in the distance. Bucky froze. He was in no position to defend himself, no matter how many materials had been sewn into his body over the years. If the wolves decided to make him their closing meal, he would have little choice but to follow suit. In the darkness of the thick of trees, a pair of yellow eyes appeared. They watched him, closely, waiting for the right moment to strike.

It took Bucky a moment to locate the growl and when he did, he couldn't help but shiver with anxiety. 'So, this is really it,' he muttered to himself, feeling around the snow. There was nowhere to get a little leverage, and wolves weren't exactly known for their leniency towards humans. As the creature began to advance on him, the majesty of its body briefly stunning him, Bucky tried to move away. He was acutely aware of his own heartbeat, its speed reminding him that for these brief seconds, he was still alive. The wolf paused, leaned back on his hind legs, observed him, and made to jump.

BANG.

Bucky had thrown his hands over his head when the gun-shot rang out. His knees had curled up to his chest, his body caving in on itself as a means of protection. After a moment, he noticed his heartbeat, still running. He wasn't dead. Glancing up, he noticed the crumpled body of the wolf laying a few feet away from him. Briefly, he was sorry. All he was guilty of was trying to survive. It's blood leaked onto the snow, a blemish on unimaginable purity. Hands were on his body. He was rolled over onto his back once again, his jaw pinching at the cool frost of the snow surrounding him. His teeth trembled against each other. Above him stood a figure, shadowed by the early evening and a pile of scarves and layers.

The figure knelt down, brushing away some of the stray snow from his face. Reaching around their neck, they withdrew one of the large scarves and wrapped it around Bucky. It did little to help, but it numbed the cold for just a moment.

'Ты говоришь по-английски?'

Bucky nodded, not trusting himself to get out a coherent sentence in such a state. The figure smirked gently.

'Good. Because my Russian is terrible.'

The voice was gentle, soothing- female. Just the right timbre to re-assure him that this was someone who wanted to help, rather than hinder, his survival. Rather than choose to pester him with more questions, the figure began to examine his body, trying to work out just what had brought him to this spot. He caught a glimpse of the person's eyes- big, blue orbs that could draw you in and capture you like quicksand. Much like his own, they were ambiguous at the best of times. You could tell nothing from them unless the owner decided to reveal it.

'Are you hurt?'

'N-N-no.'

'Where the hell have you come from then?'

A question he wanted very much to have answered.

'N-n-no i-idea.'

She seemed to notice the chattering of his teeth quicker than he did. Glancing up at the sky, which seemed to be turning closer to the colour of charcoal by the minute, she held out her hand to him.

'Come with me. I don't live far away.'

Bucky grasped her hand, hoping for some leverage. Thinking he could stand on his own, he suddenly found the world spinning. But, before he could hit the floor again, she was underneath him, hoisting his arm around her upper body. She could just about hold him up, and he was briefly grateful for the support.

'Thanks.'

'No problem. Last thing I want is you on the floor again. You'll probably lose a foot to frostbite.'

Bucky glanced down at the empty socket in the thin jacket he had been frozen in. In a flood of realization, his stomach sank a little. This, he remembered. Everything else would take more time.

'It wouldn't be the first.'

She didn't seem to hear him. Instead, as she started to help him out of the woodlands, his found his vision becoming blurry and unfocused. Walking was difficult. He felt her palm on his back, steadying him. And, as he blacked out for the second time, he couldn't help but wonder whether he had just fallen prey to some elaborate trick. Perhaps HYDRA were bringing him back.

In his unconscious state, he didn't really care.


	2. The Doctor

He was warm.

  
A nice change from what had potentially been months encased in a glorified ice cube. He lounged for a few moments longer with his eyes closed, determined to remain in this solitary comfort for just a few moments longer. Eventually, mind snuck over matter, and he opened his eyes, desperate for an insight into where he had ended up. At first glance, it looked as though he'd been dragged to Switzerland. The small cabin seemed to be the exact opposite of any Russian home he'd ever invaded; cozy, small, and just big enough to house two people at best.   
  
He was tucked up, under a mound of blankets that could easily suffocate someone, on the only bed in the cabin- a large, wooden monstrosity that took up half of the corner it had been pushed into. From this, he could see a small kitchenette at one end of the cabin, a door leading to a bathroom and a few mis-matched pieces of furniture to make up a threadbare home. The room acted as three locations at once, and was crowned by a large fireplace at the head of the 'living room'. Within it, a fire burned brightly, igniting the room in a comforting yellow glow. It was only after taking all of this in, did Bucky realise he was quite alone in the place.   
  
The figure who had rescued him was gone. Whoever it had been, they had obviously scarpered as quickly as they could once they'd settled him. He had no recollection of getting to the cabin, but it was warm and secluded enough to make him want to stay a little while longer.  
  
Wriggling his toes to ensure they could still move, Bucky started to move away some of the blankets from himself. He had no shirt, this was the first issue he could address. His hands felt across his stomach, feeling ridges of cuts, the early tenderness of bruises forming under his skin. Burst blood. It was a reminder that he was alive, once again. Particularly in the moments where his heartbeat was quiet. Aside from a few scratches, he appeared to have come out of his escapade with the great Russian outdoors unscathed. Wrapping a blanket around himself, Bucky swung his legs over one side of the bed and let his feet fall onto the floor. Fuck, he'd forgotten how good things could feel. The carpet beneath him, a faux fur, was smooth against his blistered soles, a welcome reminder that a brief respite had now been given to him.   
  
When he tried to stand, pushing himself up from the bed, he felt the world spin underneath him again. Collapsing back down onto the sheets, he tried to unscramble his brain, which was choosing this precise moment to tune out all short-term memories. Surely there was some kind of strange diagnosis for his frazzled brain, he thought to himself, clutching the side of his head as it began to throb.   
  
To address this, Bucky decided to lay out the facts the best he could. He was no longer frozen. He was in someone's house. Though whether this belonged to the figure or not was another question entirely. Slowly, Bucky allowed himself to stand and wait until his balance had been restored before he plotted out his movement. He would walk to the kitchenette and back. If he found any clues as to who the other occupant of the cabin was, perhaps he would be able to figure out how he had arrived here.   
  
Each step was a nightmare. Like a child, he stumbled clumsily across the wooden flooring, his legs threatening to give out beneath him with the intensity of a mob boss. It was all he could do not to slip down onto his hands and knees and drag himself across the room like a dog. Anything for freedom of movement. A man, he believed, could not maintain his questionable sanity within imprisonment.   
  
After a few minutes of struggling, Bucky clutched the corner of the kitchen counter, staring at the room around him. It was a feat to have made it this far, similar to the scaling of a mountain in his condition. His knees trembled slightly as he turned himself around to glance out of the only window in the place, a small rectangle of light, barred by thick slices of metal on the outside.  
  
He did a double take at his reflection. His skin was palid and sour, an off-milk white that was littered with the wine coloured reminders of his past actions. Underneath his right eye was a long, thin trace of a scar, the skin prickled and puckered where the blood had hardened. With a quivering hand, he reached up to touch, only to flinch when it stung back. His eyes were sunken and rimmed with dull purple shadows. He was weaker than he had expected, and such weakness burnt guilt in him by instinct.   
  
'Are you alright?'   
  
The voice nearly made him jump. Nearly. Had it not been for the sound of the door quietly shutting behind the figure, he would have not been aware that he was being watched at all. It was the figure's voice- that he could deduce. Instead, Bucky carefully moved himself to face the figure, anticipating the worst.   
Instead, he was greeted with the cool, worried face of a young woman. She wore a thousand layers of clothing to protect herself from the cold and in her arms, she held a small pile of firewood. Her eyes, the same eyes that had dragged him to safety, crinkled with concern at the corners as she carefully deposited the firewood and began to unravel herself from the tangle of material she was in. Bucky tried to smile, attempting a reassurance that everything was fine.  
  
'You were asleep when I left you.'   
  
'Well, now I'm awake.'   
  
'So I can see. You've been out a while.'  
  
'How long?'  
  
'Three days. I was beginning to worry.'  
  
Finally unmasked from her layers of clothing, Bucky carefully took in the grey sweater and jeans, her dark hair pulled back into a sensible ponytail, her thick, wollen socks. She looked to be a woman of immense, silent power, a figure that commanded respect and simultaneous awe without a word needing to be uttered. It rendered him, briefly, speechless. The woman made her way over to him and held out her hand.   
  
'You need to rest.'  
  
Like an obedient dog, he took it and let him lead her back to the large bed. He slipped under the covers without a word, still a little lost as to how his own stature had suddenly become overpowered with her own. She cast a cursory glance over him.   
  
'Your eye seems to be healing. That's good. I patched up everything else the best I could; no doubt you're experiencing some body weakness too--are you hungry?'   
  
It took him a moment to fully question everything she had said.   
  
'Uh...what is the question? You speak very quickly.'   
  
She smirked, her eyes suddenly becoming kinder. 'Let me get you something to eat.'   
  
The blanket was claustraphobic. Constricted around his legs, he felt tied down to something much stronger than himself, despite the weakness he felt when stood at full height. His mind conflicted with itself; he wanted to walk and run, to test that his limbs were still capable of moving- but if he did, he'd be on the floor within a few seconds. It was hardly the basis of a good first impression.   
  
The woman returned, holding a bowl of something steaming, an embroidered tea-towel protecting her hand. She perched down next to him.   
  
'Can you hold it up?'   
  
He glanced down at his body. One arm was pre-occupied trying to keep the blankets fully wrapped around himself. The other was probably lying in an abandoned area, the remnant of the war that had taken place on its soil. He swallowed, mumbling awkwardly. She smirked and picked up the spoon.   
  
'You wouldn't be the first person I've done this for. There is no judgement here.'   
  
She drew up a spoonful of soup and blew on it lightly before holding it out to him. Bucky opened his mouth and swallowed, feeling more like a petulant child as the minutes ticked on. But the soup was good, comforting, and for the first time in a while, he allowed himself to smile.   
  
'Chicken soup, right?'   
  
'It's good for the soul.'   
  
There was a reference he understood. Finally.   
  
'You never told me your name,' he murmured quietly.   
  
'You never asked,' she chuckled, pulling up another spoonful of soup, 'Dr Avery Fisher. At your service.'  
  
'A doctor of what?'   
  
'Neurobiology.'   
  
'So, brains and stuff?'   
  
She laughed, an abrasive sound with such a warm quality to it that made his insides tingle a little. Avery's cheeks flushed a little rose as she fed him another spoonful of soup.   
  
'If you want to be that pedantic about it, then yes. Brains and stuff.'   
  
He swallowed the soup, feeling the warmth spread through his veins like liquid fire.   
  
'And you? You've been quiet on your identity. I could have rescued a murderer for all I know.'  
  
The sad reality cooled him slightly. His memory might have been fried, but it wasn't so horrendous that he was not acutely aware of his past actions. Forcing his internal monologue to stay quiet for just a moment longer, Bucky stifled a fake laugh, gratefully taking the soup.   
  
'Seargant James Barnes. People call me Bucky.'   
  
'That's cute. Iraq or Afghanistan?'  
  
'Excuse me?'   
  
'Where were you stationed? I know the US is in a lot of wars right now, but those are the two melting pots. Maybe, Syria?'   
  
These were places he was not familiar with, and not even in the know that his homeland was at war with them. Eventually he shrugged, settling for the vaugest answer he could muster.   
  
'Neither. I've been out of service for a while.'  
  
Avery seemed to note the bitter undertone of his voice and nodded slowly, dropping the subject entirely. The soup had disappeared and Bucky, now feeling slightly more content, watched with drooping eyes as she slipped into the kitchen to put the bowl in the sink.   
  
'If you're not feeling it already, you're going to be in a lot of pain soon. So, take some of these, and we'll see how you go.'   
  
Avery filled a glass with water from the tap, then opened up a cabinet door. From his slumped position in the bed, Bucky could see an assortment of pill and medicine bottles; a regular adult-version of a candy store. The colours glinted in the weak sunlight from outside, making distorted shapes on the side walls. She withdrew a small bottle of pills and shook two out into her hand before making her way back over to the bed. Taking her place on again she held out the water and the pills to him. He eyed them suspiciously.   
  
'How do I know you're not sedating me?'  
  
She seemed pertubed by such an accusation, but nonetheless continued to hold her steady hand out to him.   
  
'They're aspirin. It'll help you sleep. And besides- there's no reason for me to drug you. I haven't got a chance in a fight against someone your size.'   
  
He smiled softly, then reached out and took the two pills, quickly swallowing them down with a grimace. It left a chalky, bitter taste that coated the inside of his mouth like sour milk. She looked content. Brushing a hand over his hair, Avery stood.   
  
'Sleep. I'll be just over there.'  
  
She gestured to the chair in the corner of the room, her slice of solace in the midst of nothingness. He nodded, his eyes already slipping closed as she walked away.   
Avery sat in the chair, her eyes still keeping a close eye on the sleeping stranger in her bed. Sneaking her hand under the couch cushion, she withdrew a small, leather-bound notebook and flipped it open to a fresh page. With the pencil from behind her ear, she began to write frantically on the paper.

_SEARGANT JAMES BARNES/BUCKY._   
_N: I, A, S- STATIONED IN EUROPE?_   
_AGE?_   
_D/O/B?_

Then, after a brief pause, she noted what had prompted the most discomfort in her gut.

_ARM?_


	3. The Proposition

There was music. Light. As though his own eyes were acting upon their own accord, Bucky watched as a room materialised around him. Dimly lit by muted candles and a few dulled spotlights, the room was an wide octagon.

On the walls were endless recruitment posters, calling out for men to serve their country, do their duty. Laughter, clinking glasses and the sound of loud, rapid chatter, echoed from every corner of the room and out of each metal door, that swung whenever a new waitress appeared from it. A quick glance at the dancing couples in the middle of the room, he could determine that he was in a dance hall.

It was 1943.

He was sat at one of the tables in the corner, giving him an ample view of the happy people out in front of him. Men in uniform and men not, all somehow managing to twist a girl's arm around to give him a dance. Some were lucky enough that one was all it took. Say the right things, hold her the right way, and a girl could be putty in your hands.

Glancing down at himself, Bucky noted his own heavy uniform, the cap placed neatly on the table, beside a half empty drink. It wasn't a memory, he realised, rather a construction of one- a memory masquerading as a hallucination.

Before he could attempt to wake up his unconscious self, Bucky spotted a shy girl looking at him from the other corner of the room. She sat alone, a drink in her hand, her blood red finger-tips gently swaying a small straw around the liquid. He half-smiled at her. She giggled and ducked her head. He couldn't deny she was beautiful; a little, carefully placed make-up, a closely cut, silken red dress that paused just above her knees.

Understanding what she was implying, Bucky picked up his hat and tucked it under his arm, strolling across the room to her table. He held out his hand to her.

'May I have this dance?'

The girl smiled again, her cheeks tinting the colour of a summer sunset, and stood. Before she took his hand, she snuck her hand under his arm and retrieved his hat, placing it jauntily against her head.

'How does it look?'

He smirked. 'Divine.'

The movement of their hands before the dance commenced had been ingrained into them as children. Bucky had startlingly clear memories of standing a stuffy school gynasium with a girl who kept stepping on his toes whenever he wasn't looking. To the point where a badly played rendition of 'The Blue Danube' gave him horrific nightmares. But, back to his girl. One hand went to the small of her back, the other lightly clasping her skeletal fingers.

She placed a palm against the lapel of his jacket, squeezing his other hand lightly as they started to move in time with the music.

'When do you ship out?'

'Tomorrow.' 

'Nervous?'

He shrugged, putting on the stiff upper lip that most soldiers had learned to quickly develop during training.

'It's what I have to do, right?'

'You don't sound so sure,' she murmured in response.

He turned them in a smooth circle, so he could see the small band who were elevated above the throng of dancers. The singer was female, crooning an old favourite of the room with a scratchy breath between each word. His eyes narrowed at her heavily made-up face. She was familiar, somehow. Not that Bucky knew from where, but he couldn't help but feel like he had seen such a face before.

Shaking the image out of his mind, he turned back to the nameless girl he was dancing with. But it was no longer the same one who had worn his hat so carelessly. Instead, it was the singer. She grinned at him, red lipstick lips stretching halfway to her ears as she stared him up and down.

'Want to go back to my place?'

Bucky was still a little lost for words. He mumbled something incoherently, his feet starting to fumble over the steps of the dance. They paused in their movement as he glanced hurriedly back towards the stage. The singer was still there. He looked back at the girl in his arms, his heart thumping like a marching band against his ribcage.

Eventually, he found the courage to stammer out a few words of English. 'What's your name?' The girl smirked up at him once again. She stepped away and began to unbutton her dress. As it slipped down to her ankles, it revealed a few layers of wooly, sensible clothing. Perfect for the Russian winters.

'Avery Fisher.'

_Fuck. It's a dream._

\-----------------

He awoke with a start, hands clenching the duvet into tiny fists of cotton, mouth muttering incoherent Russian babble under his breath.

Bucky glanced across the room and saw, to a strange sense of relief, that Avery was still sat on the chair, writing neatly into a large notebook. As though she could sense that he was watching her, she glanced up, closing her work when she spotted that he was awake.

'Oh. Hello. How's the pain?'

Bucky hadn't even had time to think about it. Allowing himself to relax for a moment, he made a mental scan of his whole body. It seemed to be coated in a dull throb of pain, every so often something flaring up in a different corner of his skin. He winced a little as he slipped back down into the bed, his breathing heavy.

'Six. Not bad.'

Avery didn't seem convinced as she walked over to the bed. She readjusted the blankets, which had been thrown away from around his legs as he had slept, then picked up his empty glass and went back to the sink to refill it.

'You seemed pretty deep in your head just now. You were humming. Anything interesting?'

She seemed like a trustworthy person. Bucky was confident in his sense of understanding people's psyches, and though they had barely exchanged more than a few sentences to each other, he seemed to have an innate trust of her. As though they'd known each other before. Perhaps that would explain his strange dream.

'You know how, sometimes, memories get distorted in dreams? Like, the events take place a different way and it kind of fucks you up?'

'Yeah.'

'That's what it was. Not that I remember much these days.'

Avery sat down next to him on the bed, handing him the glass of water and another handful of candy-coloured pills.

'You have memory issues?'

He swallowed down his pills, trying to think of the best way to phrase his predicament.

'It's a bit more complicated than that.'

She chuckled. 'I'm a neurobiologist. I LIVE for complicated.'

After a moment of thinking, he began to speak, expertly lying through his teeth in the hope that she wouldn't question what he said if it was done so with enough conviction.

'I saw a lot of shit. But I guess everyone says that. I went through this experimental procedure that was meant to help with the trauma. Kind of fucked up my brain.'

'What did they do?'

'Honestly? I don't remember. There was electricity involved, some hypnosis techniques- just stuff that turns a person into a hollow being.'

She sat back on her haunches, thinking this over. What calmed him, a little, was the fact that the last thing he'd said was actually true. His memories of HYDRA brainwashing was limited. Usually they came in quick bursts, flashes of moments that often prompted him to sink into an explosive episode. Before now, he had been able to predict them, and isolate himself accordingly. Here, the case would not be the same.

'I know you're lying, by the way.'

Bucky flinched slightly at the bitter tone with which she spoke. He glanced guiltily down at his hands.

'What gave it away?'

'You're exhibiting the classic signs. You didn't look me in the eye when you spoke, you used the vaugest possible language- and you're blushing. But you can't help that.'

Avery didn't look angry, and this comforted him. Instead, she offered him the smallest of smiles and crossed her legs, waiting for his response. After a moment, he glanced up at her.

'It's kind of confidential.'

'And who would I tell?'

Bucky squeezed his fingers, one at a time. It was an old relaxation technique that he had been taught as a child. Usually used to quell anxiety, if he focused long enough on the pressure on his fingers, it took his mind away from the fear that constricted in his throat.

His silence seemed to catch Avery off guard as she leaned forward and brushed his wrist, not wanting to break his silent revere.

'Sorry. I'm kind of nosy. If you don't want to say anything, you don't have to.'

He could see why she had gone into the brain business. Instead, he shook his head, leaning back against the headboard of the bed.

'No, no. You let me into your home. If you want to know, I can tell you.'

'Can I write it down?'

He glanced at her, his eyes narrowing. 'Why?'

'You're an interesting man, Bucky, and I specialise in interesting people.'

He couldn't argue with such strange flattery. He nodded and she grinned, a child at christmas, leaping from the bed and rushing to grab her notebook. As Avery settled herself back down, she re-arranged her expression to reflect the suitably therapeutic position she was creating.

'OK. Whenever you're ready.'

Bucky found himself fixating on one spot on the wooden wall, hoping it would help him retain his concentration as he spoke.

'You really only know my name. So I guess I should start with the fact that I was born in 1917, and I served in World War Two. And survived.'

Avery's pen clattered against the floor.

'So when you said you served, you meant...'

'Yep. I'm a Vet. A proper one.'

She had paled slightly. Rather than interject with the millions of questions that were already bubbling in her brain, she remained quiet, allowing him to continue speaking.

'There is, however, a large gap in my memory between my near-death after falling from a train, and a few years ago. I know now that I was working under the alias 'The Winter Soldier' as an assassin for a terrorist organisation.'

'HYDRA?'

He looked at her for the first time.

'How did you know?'

'There's only a few well known ones.'

Avery knew how to lie a lot better than Bucky did. It was a thought that would not occur to him until much later.

'I froze myself in an attempt to remember just what happened between my fall and my next clear memory. Apparently, that's a good seventy years of information that I lost.'

'Jesus christ,' Avery murmured, 'You know you're a shrink's wet dream, right?'

He didn't laugh. Instead, he continued as though she had never spoken.

'I had a friend. He's still alive. Steve Rodgers.'

'I know him.'

'Personally?' Bucky asked hopefully. 

'No, but, he's on the news a lot. Even out here.'

After a moment, Avery paused in her writing and closed the notepad. Her gaze was earnest as she waited for Bucky to look her in the eye once again.

'I'd like to study you. Just watch you for a few days, form some conclusions. I might be able to help you.'

He scoffed. 'Avery, I'm a lost cause.'

'No, you're not. Just because others have said something similar, doesn't mean I will. The brain is a powerful thing. And if I can work it the right way, I can help you remember. My behavioural neuroscience is a little rusty, but I can try.'

His skepticism was what she had expected. Most patients to whom she proposed such a radical psychological change were naturally weary of someone getting into their head. He had more than enough reason to doubt her. And so, she was surprised when almost immediately after a few blinks of silence, the broad form of the man whispered,

'OK. Yeah.'


	4. The Episode

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sam is my spirit animal and this chapter made me sad. Enjoy.

'He's gone? How can he be gone? No frozen man walks out of a _giant fucking panther_ and just disappears!'

Sam smirked. 'Language, Captain.'

Steve was pacing angrily, unable to stay in one position for more than a few seconds, restless feet getting the better of him. This was his best friend, perhaps the only person in the entire world who could understand his way of thinking and now he was gone.

The only person seeming to remain calm was T'Challa, whose stoic expression surveyed Steve calmly as he visibly panicked.

'Don't worry, Captain Rodgers. We can watch any CCTV footage and determine where he might be. You needn't be anxious.'

This did little to sedate Steve's mood. Instead, he continued to pace, his mind frantically considering every single outcome that could have come from Bucky's disappearance.

There was no way on earth that he had become unfrozen- Steve had ultimate control over that. The likelihood that HYDRA had broken into the containment compound was also low, he believed- they would have picked it up via the security systems and torn those bastards a new one.

T'challa took a moment to fiddle with his computer, before bringing up the surveillance footage from the previous few weeks before them.

Steve watched, in brief awe of modern technology, as hundreds of hours of footage were sorted through until finally, the night in question was discovered.

'This should show us everything that happened in the compound. I have cameras trained on Bucky at all times.'

The footage was grainy at best. But, as the tension in the room tightened at the sight of masked agents entering the compound, you could clearly make out one rogue soldier disappearing from the pack. The three men followed the agent as they carefully moved through the compound, seeming to know exactly wher ethey were going.

Then, as the agent stood before the dome that had housed Bucky, Steve watched in horror as his friend was unfrozen and dragged out of the glass cylinder he had been kept in.

'Fuck me,' Sam whispered, letting out a low whistle at the sight.

'I don't know how this happened,' T'challa began to stammer, trying frantically to pull together a logical explanation, 'Our security is air-tight.'

'It's electricity, Your Highness. Forgive my outburst, but sometimes, it just fails. They probably cut off your supply,' Steve muttered.

'Then how did the cameras catch the agent?' Sam asked.

'They're powered by batteries. Separate to the mains just in case something like this happens.'

'So what do we do now?' Steve asked, biting at his hangnail nervously.

The thought of Bucky out there on his own, potentially in the hands of HYDRA once again was enough to make his insides start doing the can-can.

'It's imperative we stay calm,' T'Challa began.

'Fuck that,' Sam interrupted, 'The guy's a ticking time bomb. The longer he's out there, the more chance he's got of becoming either a glorified ice cube or the winter soldier. Again.'

'I hate to say it, but Sam's right,' Steve murmured.

'Don't hate it, live it, man. I was right, let's fucking party,' Sam laughed.

'We need to figure out who the hell took Bucky, then try and secure a location.'

'Well, there was some movement detected just outside of the building,' T'Challa said, changing the CCTV footage to the outside.

The three men watched as the figure dragged Bucky outside of the building and around a corner. Once more, the footage cut to a small, closed off area, where a jet was waiting for the figure. Carefully, Bucky's unconcious, frozen body was thrown onto the jet and the doors slammed closed, the figure jumping in after them. The jet rose majestically from the floor and disappeared into the silver sky, leaving behind the other agents, who were still prowling the building.

A lump began to form in Steve's throat.

'He's not in Wakanda.'

'No. The jet looks like it was heading to the North West,' T'Challa agreed, typing frantically for a moment until he found the correct information, 'It's true. My guess is they're heading towards Eastern Europe.'

Steve stiffened. 'Then that's definitely HYDRA.'

'What is it with these guys and Russia?' Sam muttered, 'Can't they go somewhere cool? Like Barbados?'

'Russia was where they took Nat and Bucky. I wouldn't be surprised if they're trying to re-train him. He's still vulnerable. We need to locate him fast,' Steve said.

With a cool head, T'Challa stood, bowing low to Steve.

'My force is at your disposal, Captain Rogers. Do with it as you please.'

***

He could feel it coming.

From his early awakening in 1946, Bucky had learned to identify the warning signs of an episode. Heightened senses, snappy moods, restlessness- all appeared in the hour leading up to it. He would try to disassociate himself from his own mind and body, to isolate himself from the factors that could cause more destruction than he would care to make- namely other people.

Often, then, in the midst of such punishing confinement, he got trapped in the crevices of his own mind.

He would think of white coats and soulless eyes, his child-like cries for help that no one heard. Days spent alone, trying to think straight. There were thoughts in his brain, but they weren't his own, and after a while he couldn't distinguish between what he thought and what they told him to think.

And slowly, he would become what he hated the most.

Avery watched carefully as Bucky pulled himself up from the bed and went to sit in the corner of the room, his eyes fixated on the wooden walls. She was sat beside the fire, as she had been for the last few hours, once again trying to put down his state into words. It was puzzling. She couldn't seem to sum his psychological make-up in coherent English. It was beyond her understanding of language.

He was a strange specimen, one of a kind, perhaps.

Bucky's shoulders hunched. The cabin felt constricting around him. Like the walls were pulling closer. He had to get out. He began to count the scratches of the wood, the different colours that bled into each other.

_Focus. 10, 15, 20, 25..._

'Bucky?'

Avery had abandoned her work and was now stood against the wooden column that divided the living room from the bedroom. She could recognize the textbook signs of panic in his stature. Even her voice made his bones rattle. She remained at a distance.

His heavily accentuated, staggered breathing that he kept trying to focus gave him away. After a moment, figuring out just how much strength he needed to get out proper words.

'Can you leave me? Please? I just...I can't be....'

She tensed slightly. Of course there was protocol, but something told Avery that this was not a standard panic attack. Someone like Bucky was not capable of such a small deed. This was going to get nasty.

'Can I come near you?'

He said nothing. A small inclination of his head dragged her forward.

'Can you talk?'

Again, he was silent. He could feel it, like a rush of freezing water running along his spine, slowly chilling every part of his body until he became like the ice once again.

'What do you need me to do?' 

Avery came ever closer, knowing that what she was doing could potentially kill her, until finally, she placed on soft hand on his shoulder.

It happened before either of them could figure out why. His metal arm was around her throat, pinning her against the wall. She struggled, helpless underneath his power. His stance was that of a soldier, she found the space to notice; rehearsed and good postured, feet braced for impact from her.

Realisation blossomed in his eyes and he unclenched his hand, barely noticing her collapse to the floor. Avery pawed at the floorboards, trying to drag herself upright as she retched, willing oxygen back into her lungs.

' _No_...' Bucky moaned, trying to wrestle his metal arm away from her.

He caught her eye and was struck, in a pinprick fashion, at the lack of fear in her eyes. He'd tried to choke her and she still wouldn't become a victim of him.

'The walls,' she finally rasped, pointing to the wooden structure.

He glared at her, confused.

'Take it out on the walls. They can handle it.'

He tried it out for size, feeling an anger fall over him that felt like winter. A few punches- it didn't do the trick. He craved snapping something, connected with an animalistic need to snap something in half, to hear the crunch of bone, to watch someone have the life drowned out of them at his hand.

'Bucky, no!'

He reached for a nearby chair and lifted it, throwing it towards her head.

She ducked, scrambling out of the way. This was not the Bucky who had lived in her home for a fortnight- this was a monster.

Designed, created- remembered.

He searched for furniture like a predator, sending it in her direction with a might reserved for the gods. A small part of his insides tried to fight back, tried to make him see just how scared this girl looked whenever he advanced on her. It was a part of him that he'd learned to tune out. To kill when the moment was right.

Suddenly he was on his knees, screaming. He tore at his scalp, as though trying to rip the vicious words from his skull. His scream was like a stab wound. Constant, painful, and enough to make you want to die.

He reached for another piece, a wooden table, and threw with more effort than she knew existed. He heard her scream. It did not register. He collapsed, head buried into the floor, his body moving with every breath he took. It was starting to go, he could realise, it was nearly over. Bucky curled himself into a ball as his mind started to take over.

Thoughts- his own thoughts. He was safe. He was OK. He was alive.

Minutes turned into hours, and by the time he trusted himself to look up from his curled position on the floor, the sky outside had darkened to a mute black, leaving little to be seen.

Shakily, Bucky pulled himself to his feet, staring at the carnage around him. His breathing haggard, he took in the destruction. This was his fault, he reminded himself. By his own hands what had been a cozy nook was now a bombsite.

Broken furniture littered the floor. The fire had gone out. It took his head a moment to realise who was missing from this equation. Avery. He ran to the corner, shifting the table out of the way as though it was feather light.

Avery lay curled underneath it, unmoving. The left side of her face was covered in a thick, sticky crimson. Bucky knelt before her, desperately feeling her neck for a pulse.

A dull beat soothed him. Briefly.

Carefully lifting her up into his arms, he laid her out across the bed he had been inhabiting. She was as malleable as a paper doll, her fragility that of glass. Not wanting to take his eyes off of her, he fumbled his way to the kitchen for a damp cloth. When he returned, he tried to gently wipe the blood away from the wound. After a moment, small beads of diluted red began to trickle along his metal arm.

It made him want to vomit.

Rummaging through the bed-side table, he found a bandage and cloth. With clumsy precision, he managed to place the bandage over the wound and secure it. He hoped this would subdue her until she woke up. If she woke up.

Slumping against the side of the bed, Bucky pulled his knees up to his chest and pressed his head to them.

Tears watered his dewy cheeks as he rocked a little in his step. He had done this. He had hurt the one person who had shown him kindness.

He was no better than before.


End file.
